


Swallow Your Pride

by Empy (Empyreus)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Bartering, Humiliation, Light Bondage, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 11:18:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5926525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empyreus/pseuds/Empy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for Savageseraph for the 2016 Slashy Valentine challenge.</p><p>This ended up rather dark, as her request was for (among other things) "power dynamics, an edge of danger/darkness, dubcon/noncon, high passion/stakes, kink, bondage, dirty talk". I hope I've managed to hit at least some of those!</p>
    </blockquote>





	Swallow Your Pride

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Savageseraph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageseraph/gifts).



> Written for Savageseraph for the 2016 Slashy Valentine challenge.
> 
> This ended up rather dark, as her request was for (among other things) "power dynamics, an edge of danger/darkness, dubcon/noncon, high passion/stakes, kink, bondage, dirty talk". I hope I've managed to hit at least some of those!

He is quite certain the Elven guards must all be sworn to silence, because they never speak to him, or to each other if they are within earshot of the cells. They communicate in nothing but curt gestures and angry glares, and it falls to him to puzzle out what they mean.

This gesture is clear enough. It means "move" and "attempt no tricks" and "you are beneath me" all at once. The rope looped around his wrists underlines it, the knots painfully tight.It does not surprise him that he has been restrained. He expects nothing less, particularly after the previous spat, but does not feel remorse. Regret, perhaps; regret over not having twisted free from the guards' grip and given the Elvenking the hiding he so richly deserved.

Balin is still pointedly silent, having no more terse advice to give.

 

The citadel is like a spider's web, with bridges and walkways taking the place of threads. He is being led on a circuitous path, down and down before a steep rise. The dim lights are set high up, affording just enough light to see by. 

 

He would admire the craftsmanship of the wide double doors were he not so angered by his situation. He is a prisoner and treated as such. However, he doubts many of the prisoners who doubtless have languished in the cells of the citadel have been afforded the luxury and honour of being brought before the King himself in his private quarters.

 

"On your knees," hisses the guard, and it is a strange thing to hear him speak. 

When he doesn't obey, he is forced down with a swift strike to the backs of his knees. They buckle, because he is weak from the trek still, from the still and noxious air in the forest, and the pain drives up his legs. He makes no sound, unwilling to give Thranduil the satisfaction of seeing him weak.

"I trust you are rested?"

He says nothing, choosing instead to fix his gaze on a crack in the stone floor a foot in front of him.

"I prefer you lucid." There is a pause, and he could swear there is amusement in the voice as it continues. "It makes the negotiations more fair."

More fair indeed. He is bound, and the rope is deceptively soft, because while it doesn't tear his skin, it is tightening mercilessly whenever he tries to wring his hands. Worse yet, he is on his knees, feet awkwardly tucked under him. "I have never negotiated while tied up. I do not intend to begin now." His anger is burning the last vestiges of dizziness away, and he wonders if he could get to his feet. His bound hands will throw him off balance, but he can move quickly when needed.

"You do realize it would be to my detriment if I freed you? Surely you do not expect me to reward you for your trespassing?" 

Dead leaves grate against the floor behind him, crushed under boot heels, and the deep red hem of the King's robes sweeps into his field of vision. He refuses to look up, unwilling to grant the Elf the pleasure of seeing him having to crick his neck in supplication. "I do not negotiate while on my knees."

"But it suits you."

He wonders for a moment if his mind has made the sly comment up, if he hears mockery formed out of thin air, and then Thranduil crouches down in front of him in a flutter of rich robes. There is a heady scent of smoke and dark flowers about him, in contrast to the pale hair and clear gaze. The sharp smile on his features confirms that the insult was not made up.

"This is my kingdom. We are not on equal footing, Prince Crownless, and you have no weight to throw around. But you have something that I desire."

Oh, how the mocking title prickles at him. There is no doubt in his mind that the misuse of it is deliberate, or that it thrills the Elf. The title isn't the only thing that catches his attention, however. _Something that I desire._ He knows what that glitter in the Elf's eyes is now. Not the greed of mere flesh but the glimmer of avarice. 

“I can be reasonable. I am willing to set aside the earlier… altercation. Your colourful insults.” The smile is like a knife, and as trustworthy as a bridge of moonlight on water. “What would you do in return for help?”

"At least let me have my hands tied in front," he says, bypassing the question and not expecting his request to be granted. He doubts it would be of much use to him, but it would feel less humiliating. 

He expects the edge of the King's suddenly drawn sword to rend the air itself, tear it like it was a stained veil, but it merely settles against his neck for a moment. The guard who had previously stood by the door as inert as a statue, now moves in to untie his hands with efficient and brutal movements. He is free only for a moment, one too brief for him to attempt anything, and the sword at his throat effectively quells any further thoughts of escape or resistance. He has seen how swiftly the Elves move, how their blades flicker faster than sight in battle.

He tries to twist his wrists as they are tied to gain some leverage, but the guard aims a hard kick at this thigh in rebuke. When he bares his teeth, the blade at his neck sweeps around, caressing his skin with icy smoothness before settling against his throat.

"Leave us," the Elf commands his guard, who obeys without protest or flourish. Once the echo of the steps has faded, silence presses in on them. 

The edge of the blade rests just by the vein in his throat, pressing a hair-thin cut into the skin, and he breathes very shallowly to avoid making it deeper. 

"I did not expect this when I saw you as a mere whelp standing in the shadow of your grandfather's throne. I did not expect to have you on your knees grovelling and begging me for help after you had tangled yourself into the great dark Greenwood." 

He remembers those moments, remembers the processions of the Elves like the spectral shimmer of light through prisms. So pale against the deep green stone of Erebor, so wispy and wan and with lilting voices that echoed in unfamiliar ways. He remembers himself, curious more than furious back then, in days when the Elves had willingly visited Erebor. In days when there had been rivers of jewels.

White jewels. He knows which ones.

Thranduil leans closer, angling the blade of the sword to run horizontal. "What would you do in return for help? Perhaps your blood has cooled somewhat now."

One of the rings on the King's hands is familiar to him, startlingly so. He has cut that gem, seen to that each facet of its chalky face was even, and set it in mithril. The mithril is gone now, but the stone remains, the facets still razor-sharply lined. The gem is the same milky white as the King's blind eye, that shocking hidden scar in the ageless face.

"I should have you kiss it," the King smiles. "I know you recognize it."

"If we are to negotiate, then let us do so. I have no patience with prating and posturing." He speaks quickly and with a voice louder than he intended, not caring if he interrupts.

"Watch your tongue or I'll have it."

 _Watch your tongue or I'll have it._ The words are so soft and yet so sharp, and he feels as though he were trapped in the jaws of the white Warg again. The fingers grabbing his face are thin but hard as steel, and the thumb pressing into the hinge of his jaw seems like a spike. He fights not to give in, not to have his mouth fall open, but it is a losing battle.

 _Watch your tongue._ It is not a warning and yet it is all the warning he gets before Thranduil's mouth closes over his. It is a suffocating kiss, all greed and power, but he begins to buckle under its thrall frighteningly quickly. Even when he composes himself and fights the grip, the feeling lingers.

“It seems each time you speak, you bristle and bark. We should put that mouth to better use.”

 

It is not the first time he has done this, far from it, but it is the first time he has been so helpless. So unwilling.

Thranduil towers over him, a spectre in shimmering robes, but there is nothing spectral about his arousal. No, it is base and blatant, and when Thorin tries to lean away, Thranduil takes him by the hair.

"You know what to do."

 

He can barely breathe. Thranduil is relentless, fucking his mouth with harsh strokes and without a care for comfort. In fact, it seems to be the driving force, and each choked sound or twitch only spurs him on. Thorin's throat aches more fiercely than his knees, but his pride is what is taking the worst wounds. They are alone, that is true, but it is no comfort at all. He would grit his teeth if he could, and that thought is his mistake. 

“Do not even finish that thought.” The hand in his hair tightens so hard he expects to hear skin tear, and he relaxes his jaw despite the pain. “Your payment is not rendered in full.” 

It seems the seconds are stretching into hours and years, and there is no respite, no chance to draw breath. His head is growing light, and his body is rebelling. Since when was this what he sought? Humiliation? Submission? Since never, certainly not to Thranduil. To any Elf.

“I will remember this moment, Prince Crownless. I will treasure this memory of you on your knees like some common slattern, sucking cock like your life depended on it. Perhaps it does.”

His eyes are closed. The mockery in the tone is clear enough; he does not need to see the smile.

“I can be reasonable.” It seems Thranduil is talking to himself rather than Thorin, as though trying to convince himself by repeating that statement over and over. “I offer you my help, but at a price.”

And what a price it is. He tries to think of it as a means to an end, tries to remember the glory of the kingdom he is fighting to reclaim. Tries to remember the glossy stone of the throne room of Erebor, but the memory is warping, and he is standing by the throne once more, watching the Elves approach. He expects to remember watching jewels being handed over, but instead, Thranduil raises his gaze and points at him dismissively. 

It is enough to jolt him out of the memory.

_I offer you my help, but at a price._

His pride is the price, he realizes. How it must thrill Thranduil to command him like this, use him like this and hold his fate in harsh fine-boned hands. He looks up at Thranduil, glares, and his reward is a thrust so hard it almost brings tears to his eyes. 

"Swallow." The command is smooth, a murmur more than an order, but there is no mistaking the glitter in the icy eyes.

_Swallow your pride._


End file.
